


in my way

by caelystrae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Lactation Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, ao3tagoftheday do NOT interact, fareeha sucks angelas titties so often they accidentally induce lactation I GUESS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-10 14:49:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17428001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caelystrae/pseuds/caelystrae
Summary: “It’s unlikely,” Angela starts, her tone almost professional, unsurprising given her bad habit of resorting to scientific justifications of events when she is uncomfortable, “Especially without hormonal intervention, but,” she bites her lip, “It is possible to induce lactation with, ah,” here, her voice sounds a bit strangled, “Repeated manual stimulation.Particularly over a long period of time.”“Repeated manual stimulation?” Fareeha asks, at first for confirmation and then, once Angela has nodded, she cannot resist adding with a grin, “Sothat’swhat the kids are calling it these days.”





	in my way

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this for a friend who doesnt want to be named. she knows who she is tho
> 
> seriously dont read this if u dont want to read lactation kink

As well-matched as they are, and as compatible a couple they might seem to others, Fareeha and Angela are not, in fact, always perfectly suited to meet one another’s needs, nor are they evenly matched in all things.  Like most couples, they compromise—well and often.  They compromise about the food they eat, the time they wake, and where and in what manner it is appropriate to display affection in front of other people.  What seems, on the surface, to be a unique compatibility is, instead, an equally unlikely mutual willingness to keep trying until they reach an agreement.  Whenever they can, they meet one another halfway.

Compromise is not always an easy thing; more than once, they have found themselves at cross purposes, and have not come to a resolution swiftly, or without a considerable amount of effort.  Still, in most cases—even ones as serious as their views on what to do if a lifesaving operation for a civilian poses a risk to an entire operation—they can find a common ground, in the end, find some way in which they are compatible, in which they see eye to eye, and move forwards from there.

Some differences, however, cannot be negotiated.  Among them, the fact that no matter the location, position, or acts involved, it will always take Angela _considerably_ longer than Fareeha to become aroused and subsequently attain orgasm.  Given that they are highly sexually compatible in virtually every other way, this has not negatively impacted their relationship in the long term, no matter how frustrating it may be for both of them in the moment, but it is something that they have needed to learn to work around.

Perhaps, however, the phrase “work around” has too negative a connotation.  Certainly, Fareeha enjoys her part in doing so.

(In the beginning, it was a problem, was a source of embarrassment for Angela and somewhat wounded pride for Fareeha, and neither of them particularly _wanted_ to discuss it, for that reason.  Neither of them wanted to say that it had made it feel inadequate, although they both felt so, nor did they want to press, or admit defeat, and the little things they tried without speaking about them first were not helpful in the least—but they can laugh about those failures, now, having found a solution which suits them both well.)

 It is something they hit upon quite by accident, something neither of them would have dared to suggest in such bold terms—that Fareeha _suckle_ her wife.  Yet, this is what they find themselves doing.

(It is not their only solution, of course, but others involve either decidedly more one-sided outcomes, in which Fareeha comes three or four times and Angela only the once, or considerably more activity, planning, and negotiation.  This is something they can do any time they like, and not have to worry about having discussed it beforehand, or tiring themselves out before things begin in earnest.)

For Angela, it is enough constant stimulation to arouse her over a period of time, without being so direct that she is unprepared, and for Fareeha the gratification is less in the sexual nature, and more in the fact that it is _nice_ to be close to her wife like this, to enjoy the physical and emotional bond it creates.

(It can be fun, too, idly playing with Angela’s breasts—Fareeha enjoys the weight and the shape of them in her hand, the way that they bounce when Angela huffs and shifts positions as she nears the point of arousal at which they can actually begin in earnest.  It sounds crass to say, but they are _nice_ breasts, and sometimes Fareeha reminds Angela of this, just to see her blush bright pink.)

Over time, it becomes—not routine, because that implies that it is not something to be savored and enjoyed, but—something of a go-to, the most practical solution to a problem they confront two to three times a week.  So it naturally surprises both of them when, abruptly, things change.

Everything about the evening is ordinary; they were away on separate missions for the better part of the week, and find themselves finally getting a moment to themselves on Thursday night.  They cook together, Angela has a single glass of wine whilst they both eat dinner and talk about their weeks (stressful), their plans (relaxing), and the goings on around base (amusing), and when they are done eating, they both do the washing up before retiring to their bedroom.  Although it is all well and good to be adventurous on occasion, they both live sufficiently busy and hectic lives that sometimes, falling into habit is comforting.  To say they plan their sex life out in advance sounds unromantic, awkward, and forced, but they are both happy to have sex at a previously agreed upon date and time, approximately, and in fact these evenings, often scheduled a week or two in advance, usually go smoother for both of them than spontaneous sex ever could.  Therefore neither of them expects anything out of the ordinary that particular evening, when they divest themselves of their clothing—Fareeha’s carefully folded, and Angela’s not at all—and settle in for the evening, Angela sitting in Fareeha’s lap, back arched, bra cups pulled down to allow for better access.

Things are normal, are as they should be, the feeling of Angela’s arms over her shoulders, the smell of Angela’s skin in her nose—not pleasant, specifically, nor unpleasant, only _familiar_ , and therefore comforting—and the taste of Angela’s skin on her lips.  Things are normal until, suddenly, they are not.

(Such is often the case, in their line of work and in general, as familiarity belies subtle hints of coming change.)

When it happens, it is so unexpected that Fareeha cannot say for sure which of them realizes first.  What Fareeha notices immediately is the feeling, the warm liquid entering her mouth and then, before she can balk, the taste, sweet but not overpoweringly so.  At first, she is too stunned to react, ceasing to suck even as she makes no move to draw away.  Her mind is stuck trying to process _what_ and _why_ is happening in those moments, until, abruptly, she realizes that Angela, previously squirming pleasantly in her lap, has gone still, too.

It is impossible to tell which of them pulls back first, but one moment they are wrapped up together, and the next, they are both leaning as far from one another as possible, Fareeha trying—and failing—to meet Angela’s embarrassed and downcast eyes.

“Angela?” says she, not entirely certain which of the many questions that come to mind to ask, and opting instead to leave open the opportunity for Angela to answer _any_ of them.

“Sorry,” is the first thing her wife says, and then, “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

 _No kidding_ , Fareeha thinks, but does not say, in favor of allowing Angela to elaborate on her statement.

“It’s unlikely,” Angela starts, her tone _almost_ professional, unsurprising given her bad habit of resorting to scientific justifications of events when she is uncomfortable, “Especially without hormonal intervention, but,” she bites her lip, “It is possible to induce lactation with, ah,” here, her voice sounds a bit strangled, “ _Repeated manual stimulation_.  Particularly over a long period of time.”

“Repeated manual stimulation?” Fareeha asks, at first for confirmation and then, once Angela has nodded, she cannot resist adding with a grin, “So _that’s_ what the kids are calling it these days.”

“Stop that,” Angela insists with a frown, clearly not as amused by this as Fareeha is.

“Sorry,” Fareeha says, and then very seriously adds, “We can stop if you want.  I know we made plans but, if you’re uncomfortable…”

Somehow, Angela’s face goes redder, “I’m not,” she says, so quietly Fareeha almost does not hear her.

“Oh,” says Fareeha.  _Oh._

She must sound more ambiguous than she feels, because Angela quickly adds, “If you don’t want to, though, I understand.  It’s hardly—”

“Hey,” Fareeha interrupts, “It’s okay.  I didn’t mind.”

(Not minding might, in fact, be an understatement, but Fareeha really cannot think of a way of saying that it was a surprising turn-on without making _herself_ feel embarrassed too.)

There is a pause, in which neither of them really does anything, although she does finally meet Fareeha’s gaze, still clearly embarrassed but more confident, now.  When the silence stretches on a moment too long Fareeha adds, “So is this something you’re into?”

“No!” Angela insists, and then, more impersonally, but in a self-conscious rush, “Lactation stimulates the release of oxytocin, which is also, perhaps most commonly, released during orgasm.  So while it’s not typical, it’s far from unheard of to, ah, _enjoy_ lactating.”

 _Lactating_ , it sounds so clinical.  But Fareeha does not know what else she would call it.  Nursing?  Hardly, Fareeha is not a child.  Breastfeeding?  That sounds a little better, in Fareeha’s mind, but still—it’s so direct, perhaps it would only embarrass Angela more to hear it said that way.

“But you did enjoy it?” she wants to confirm, because they have other options, if this makes Angela at all unhappy, even if Fareeha is _very_ interested in trying it.

“Yes,” Angela admits, “And I’ve been a bit sore for the past few days.  This might help with that.”

“Well,” Fareeha says, pulling Angela back close to her and moving her mouth to hover over one nipple, “Doctor’s orders.”

Angela snorts rather ungracefully at that, but what begins as an admonishment is quickly cut off by a moan when, after a few moments of suckling, Fareeha once again manages to coax her into producing milk.

The sensation is nothing like Fareeha expected, even after having experienced it a few minutes before.  Rather than filling her mouth straight away, the milk is produced slowly, scarcely more than a trickle, and she finds that she has to work in order to get enough to really savor.  The reality of sucking precludes keeping any of it in her mouth, and so it takes some time before she has had enough of it to reach any sort of conclusion about the taste, the sensation.

Not only is it arousing in and of itself, but she quite enjoys the softness of Angela’s breast pressed to her face, and the small sounds of pleasure her wife is making.  Trying to improve the experience for Angela, to draw as much of a reaction as possible, to see how far she can push Angela with only this, only the limited contact this provides, she varies the speed and intensity with which she sucks.

Evidently this experience is very different for Angela than their typical activities; now, rather than preferring when Fareeha varies speed, when she punctuates things with a particularly hard suck or nip, Angela seems only to want a constant pressure, pulls back slightly when Fareeha is too rough and pants the loudest when given a constant, middling pressure.  The thought that she is cataloguing this for the future catches Fareeha off guard.  Does she want to do this again?  Would it be fair for her to ask that?

(It would not be the _strangest_ thing they have asked of one another, Fareeha thinks, but it might be the one that would be the most inconvenient in the long term—and the most difficult to explain if anyone found out.)

Perhaps, if Angela’s reactions are any indication, she will not need to ask.  It is not long before Angela pulls Fareeha’s head back so that she can shift positions, straddling Fareeha’s thigh to grind against it, one hand twining in Fareeha’s hair to push her closer to her-previously ignored left breast.

Normally Angela takes far longer than this to respond, and even when she does, she is rarely so _demanding,_ preferring to beg.  The change takes Fareeha aback, but is not at all unpleasant; she has often wished that her wife were more comfortable taking a dominant role unprompted. 

Yes, Fareeha thinks as she feels the fingers in her hair tighten in time with the initial release of milk, this is something she could get used to, if Angela would allow it.  It is an almost overwhelming sensory experience, the taste on her tongue and the softness of Angela’s skin and the smell of the milk and the sounds her wife is making—Fareeha has to close her eyes or it will be too much, too much.

(Sometimes, too much is just enough, but there is a strange emotion bubbling in Fareeha’s chest too at the closeness of it, the intimacy, and she feels it threaten to crash over her.  Always, when she teases Angela by playing with her breasts, it feels safe, feels secure, and that feeling is only heightened now, is only made more intense by having Angela wrapped around her, the taste of Angela in her mouth and Angela’s scent there every time she inhales, nose pressed against her wife’s soft skin.  It has been a long time since Fareeha felt truly, completely safe and this is—it is a lot, and all at once.)

Before she can get too lost in the sensations, Angela shifts slightly again, this time bringing her unoccupied hand between the two of them and questioningly teasing at the hem of Fareeha’s panties.

This time, it is Fareeha who pulls back, but only just enough to ask, “You’re done?”

(She hopes she does not sound too disappointed.)

“No,” Angela says, fingers in Fareeha’s hair tugging nervously as if it were her own, “No I just—” a sharp inhale as Fareeha tenses her thigh slightly, providing more resistance to grind on, “I think this might be enough for me, so...”

 _How unexpected._ “In that case,” Fareeha tells her, and is nearly embarrassed at how breathless the thought has made her, of Angela coming only from this, “Go ahead.”

Angela’s fingers are as cold as ever, a pleasant contrast to the way in which the room has begun to feel overwhelmingly hot, and the pad of one of her fingertips brushing over Fareeha’s clit at the same time as Fareeha reconnects her lips to Angela has both of their hips rocking, and whatever gentleness there was in Angela’s exploratory initial contact is quickly abandoned, much to Fareeha’s relief.

Above her, she can hear Angela murmur something about how wet she is, and Fareeha merely groans against Angela in response.  Of course she is—something about this, the intimacy, the way Angela is so clearly so very into it, the unexpected nature of it, _something_ about it has had her almost uncomfortably aroused since shortly after they began.  Fortunately, she has never been one to be ashamed of desire, particularly around her wife, and instead of stopping to say anything, she simply rocks into Angela’s hand again.

(If she could speak while doing this, she would say _You are too_ , which is a rarity in and of itself.  Her wife is rarely wet enough to make penetration comfortable without some sort of lube, but now she can feel the dampness of Angela’s underwear against her thigh, and knows from that alone her wife must be close.)

It is an almost out of body experience, even as her arousal builds and she is aware of Angela’s fingers moving faster, rubbing harder, everything washes over her because there is so much of it at once.  Rather than focusing on the physical feeling—Angela grinding down against her thigh faster and harder, the way the breast against her face moves as Angela’s chest moves with sharp breaths and stifled cries, the orgasm building within her own body—she focuses, instead, on the emotion of the moment, how all encompassing it feels, the two of them wrapped up in one another as they are, how safe she is, in Angela’s arms in this moment, how at peace.

Almost distantly, she can hear Angela begging, asking for just a bit more, a moment longer, _please_ and _I love you,_ and her name, over and over, _Fareeha, Fareeha, Fareeha_.  She cannot respond, occupied as her lips are, but she does not know that she would even if she could, not when she is so caught up in the emotion of the moment, too much so to put into words what she is experiencing.

Strange, to think that something like this would make her feel so deeply, but she is past the point of trying to fight her feelings, at least where Angela is involved, and it enhances the sensation, if anything.  Everything is _warm_ and _safe_ and _right_ and she does not have to work to come, feels her orgasm building inside her like the tide coming in, until suddenly something shifts and it washes over her.

(Angela follows her a few moments later, the jerking of her hips enough to push her wife over the edge.  While not loud, she is decidedly more vocal, and the praises she utters settle in Fareeha’s heart, make her feel a different sort of warmth altogether, contentment.)

A minute passes, and then Angela is rather insistently removing Fareeha’s face from her breast, empty and, she says, sensitive.

“Sorry,” Fareeha tells her.

“Don’t be,” is the response, “It was…”

(She does not need to finish the sentence.  They are eye to eye now, again, and Fareeha can see how satisfied Angela looks, and how at peace.)

“Yeah,” Fareeha says, “Yeah.”  And then, “Thank you,” as she leans into a kiss.

For a moment, their lips meet, but only the one before Angela is pulling back, nose wrinkling, “Is that what it tastes like?  Gross.”

“That’s on you,” Fareeha tells her, and then, thinking of other gross things, like the way Angela’s damp underwear is growing cold and tacky against her skin, she adds, “Let’s go get cleaned up.”

“Good idea,” Angela says and then, pausing halfway off of Fareeha’s lap, leans in for another kiss, apparently deciding that being close to Fareeha is worth tasting her own milk for just a moment more.  “Let’s do this again,” says she.

(Fareeha thinks about how intense she felt in the moment, how much she dislikes surprises—she thinks about it and then immediately discards both concerns, because the intimacy was good, and for once, something unexpected was not a threat, was not a danger to her, was something that instead made her feel safe, feel comforted, feel whole.)

“Of course,” Fareeha agrees, and quickly—there is no need for compromise here.

**Author's Note:**

> regrets. i have em
> 
> q: can u really induce lactation?  
> a: yes. everyone, including amab ppl, can manually induce lactation, altho its usually pretty difficult and p much never happens accidentally, which is half of the joke which caused me to write this fic  
> q: does breastfeeding really turn ppl on?   
> a: yes, breastfeeding and childbirth cause u to release oxytocin, and women have reported achieving orgasm from both activities. due to embarrassment, shame, and a lack of understanding, this likely is underreported, but as many as 40% of women become aroused when breastfeeding at least once in their lifetime  
> q: why did u write this?  
> a: i smoke doobies suck boobies and pwn noobies


End file.
